


Lie Back and Think of England

by diogcnes



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe, M/M, Rowing
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-04-20
Updated: 2017-04-19
Packaged: 2018-03-24 21:26:11
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 9,577
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3784819
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/diogcnes/pseuds/diogcnes
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John is the coxswain for the Cambridge Light Blues and Sherlock just happens to be stroking.</p><p>or: the one where crew consumes everyone’s lives, euphemisms run wilder than elephants in heat, and the Cambridge University boat club comes to the general consensus that everyone is a little gay.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

I decided to take a cue from earlygreytea68 and do a little write-up on crew before I get into the story. You could probably skim through most of this and manage to make sense of a good handful of the lingo they use. Reminder that the characters in this fic will be using terminology exclusive to boating and rowing and sometimes it gets a little heavy.

I will be putting terminology and other explanations at the end of every chapter to help everyone along. This is mainly because of the fact that this was supposed to be short and sweet but spiralled into three long pages and lots of tears. 

Rowing is centered around boats called shells. The difference between a shell and a boat is that a shell is designed solely for racing and exercise. Racing shells are long and narrow, as opposed to an actual boat. 

Crew is different from other sports because it’s really equipment driven. Boats can easily malfunction and parts can break and get damaged. Oars can get old, headset wiring can fry, and load of other things.

Racing shells have outward riggers that extend beyond the gunwales. The riggers are attached to the oarlocks which hold the oars in place. A boat can either be rigged for sweeping (one oar for each rower) or for sculling (two oars for each rower). 

The stern is the back of the boat, it is where the coxswain is usually located and where the skeg and the rudder is. The rudder is the thin metal square the steers these boats. The skeg keeps the boat in line. The coxswain controls the rudder with a pulley system in the stern. The coxswain sits upright in the stern and when faced with a bowloader or a bow-coxed boat, they have to crouch down into the foredeck. Losing or breaking the rudder or the skeg is very, very bad. 

Seating in the boat is crucial. In eights, there are (surprise) eight seats. These seats slide, allowing for maximum mobility. Four rowers row on starboard side and the other four row on port. Many athletes try their best to learn both sides, to ensure flexibility and likelihood of being put into the top boats. Bisweptuality is becoming more common in crews and it’s easy to see why.

The first four rowers from the coxswain seat are called the stern four. The bow four are the four rowers closest to the bow. Middle four are the ones in the middle and outside four are the stern pair and the bow pair. 

In an eight, the eight rowers are separated into groups of two. Stroke seat or eight seat sits directly in front of the coxswain. Strokes set the rhythm of the boat. Seven seat is their starboard counterpart, sevens have to be slightly smarter than the rest of the boat because they don’t have their a starboard to follow. They lead the starboards and follow the stroke. 

The middle four (six, five, four, and three) are known as the engine room. This is where the boat is widest, so the strongest and the biggest of rowers are put here. Six seat is the tallest. They drive the boat and this where the boat derives its power from. Three seat is usually the rower with the worst technique, it is widely regarded as a safe place where they can’t totally fuck up. Big love to all the three seats out there (I was one too, before I started coxing).

Second seat is like the stroke seat, but in the bow. They set swing pace after bow seat. Bow seat is the last seat. Both second and bow are smaller than the others, as they are located in a thinner part of the boat, they must have a good sense of balance. 

If a rowing coach asks you what the most important seat in the boat is, don’t answer. It’s a trick question. You might say stroke, because they lead the boat or six seat, because they’re the tallest. No. That is a rookie mistake. But if you decide to answer because you’re a rebel, the coxswain will always be the most important person in the boat. No matter what, it is always, and forever will be, the coxswain.

I might be biased in this because I am one but coxswains really are the foremost person in the boat. A boat would literally get nowhere without a coxswain. Many overlook the coxswain but it happens anyway. We do not just sit in the stern and yell “Stroke. Stroke.” 

Rowers cannot see where they are going since they face backwards. The only person in the boat who is facing forwards is the cox. We’re meant to steer the boat correctly and not hit buoys or row over logs. And keep in mind that there also happens to be a six-foot stroke blocking our view.

Coxswains are usually short and light. They encourage the rowers and correct technique. In the Boat Race, the coxswains have to sharp and aware, ready to make a decision in a split second. So there’s a lot of trust involved. And a lot of guessing. 

You’ll see the coxswains refer to their “line” and their “point”. The line is an imaginary course that coxswains project onto the river. It governs where they turn and where they steer straight. The point is simpler, it’s where the boat is projected to go. Most coxswains use landmarks to fix their point. Say, if a boat is pointed towards shore and the coxswain doesn’t fix it, the boat will beach, or end up on land. 

In many instances, coxswains are stand ins for the coach. If anything goes wrong out on the water, it will be blamed on the coxswain. If the actual shell breaks or is damaged, it is widely regarded as the coxswain’s fault. What rowers do not know is that they are liable for any damage done to their personal rigger and oar. 

All rowing equipment is expensive, all of it. This is why membership to any private rowing club is not great for your wallet. I row with a school so I only pay 1500 dollars a year, roughly 500 dollars per season. This is not counting the fees for trips to other regattas and nationals. Great, right?

Coxswains are also held responsible for the coxbox, an electronic device that monitors stroke rate, elapsed time, and number of strokes. When attached to a headset, it works as an amplifier. Most boats have wiring and speakers throughout that allow the coxswain’s voice to be well, amplified. If it’s broken, a good coxswain will improvise and start yelling into the boat. 

Crew teams do a hell of a lot of land workouts. Endurance and speed is crucial in a race and crews cannot just rely on water practices. There’ll be lots of references to tanks and ergometers. Tanks are indoor facilities that mimic conditions that rowers would experience when out on the water. It’s basically a bunch of sliding seats and riggers attached to large pools of water. Ergometers are known as ergs in the US and ergos in the UK. Ergometers are indoor rowing machines that simulate the action of rowing on water.

Alright, last bit. The stroke. The rowing stroke starts at the catch, when the oar is placed into the water. The rower will then push with their legs, allow the boat to pick up momentum before swinging with back and then will take the arms in. This is called the drive and the resulting position is the finish. The finish is when the rower is closest to the bow and vice versa for the catch. 

The recovery comes after, the rower will do what they did during the drive, but backwards. Drive consists of legs, back, arms and the recovery goes arms, back, legs. In between all of this, lots of mistakes can happen. In the interest of the reader, I will not go into every single one and will instead do my best to describe technique corrections when mentioned. 

The characters will be rowing the Boat Race. It is an annual boat race between the Oxford University Boat Club and the Cambridge University Boat Club. It is rowed between two eights on the Thames River in London. Oxford rows on the Thames but Cambridge rows at the Ely Boathouse, on the River Great Ouse. All in all, there are four boats selected to row the race. The reserve crews, Isis and Goldie, and the final or Blue crews. 

The Boat Race course is a four mile course, starting at Putney to Mortlake. The start and the finish are marked by the Boat Race Stones. The clubs’ presidents toss the 1879 sovereign to decide which station to take. Their decision is largely based on the weather that day. There are two stations, Middlesex and Surrey. Middlesex holds the advantage of the first and last bends while Surrey holds the longer middle bend. Both coxswains will compete for the fastest current, which lies in the deepest part of the river. 

The Boat Race is a big thing in the UK. Lots of people bet on the boats, know the crews by name, and have an overall appreciation of it. Rowers come from all over to try out for either club. Lineup selection for the race actually takes months of prep. The schedule is intensive and they still have to pass their classes. 

There’s a lot of press leading up to the boat race. There’s usually some sort of company that sponsors it. The Challenge happens at the Autumn Reception, where the presidents of the boat club that lost the past year will challenge the other club to a race. 

You got to the end of my sad attempt at explaining rowing and for that I congratulate you. To be honest, this fic has been in the works since 2012 and in the light of recent events, I decided to get on with it. It's not finished, though I do have some residual chapters from 2012 waiting to be revised. I have a general overview of how I want this to go and I’m loosely basing it off of a movie called True Blue.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> in which the racing season starts, Sherlock Holmes wears spandex, and John starts a small fire.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Much love to Carrie and Gaby who offered up advice and help as I wrote this. You guys are the best.

John Watson likes to scream. 

He screams at learner drivers blocking the road, he screams at the too small tvs at the local pub, he even goes so far as to scream at chip and pin machines for not accepting his credit card. That’s why he was a coxswain. That’s also why he’s banned from every Tesco in a five mile radius from his flat. 

This season was slated to be, for lack of a better word, his bitch. Harry had scolded him about that but even she couldn’t deny it. He had spent the past seasons biding his time with the Goldie crew. He had cemented the coach-athlete relationship between him and Lestrade through countless pub visits. He was studying up on headwinds and river depth every free period he had. 

He had worked too hard and for too long for some idiot to take it from him. 

Then Sherlock Holmes came along. He changed everything. 

What a pretentious dick. 

::

September was when the season began. Morning; the atmosphere was heavy, laden down with the innocent hopes of underclassmen. The boathouse swarmed with boys of all ages, vying to get a spot in the Light Blue boat. A sense of duty was in the air which coincidentally resembled the smell of dead fish. 

Holmes. He had sauntered into the boathouse, a bored look on his face, not paying attention to queue of boys before him. Holmes was dressed fashionably, toting around a brand name athletic bag and expensive racewear. He surveyed his surroundings and sighed deeply. Holmes proceeded to the back of the line and ignored any conversation directed at him. 

Everyone around him got the general vibe that he was a massive prick. They weren’t _wrong_. 

Bill Murray and Hugh Kavanagh had been handling the sign up table for what seemed like hours. Seasoned Cambridge University rowers, they had been playing this game for years. They also happened to be bored, sleepy, and tired of having to tell the freshmen that they could care less about how many boat races they’d watched before or how many boat race alumni they could name. So of course, they called in backup. 

John swore when his phone pinged. Idiots. You’d think that two of the best rowers this side of the continent would be able to handle a bunch of university students. He rolled his eyes and left Donovan to finish with the boat rigging and told her he’d check the lateral pitch later. 

Many of the newcomers who didn’t recognize him began to protest as he walked into the boathouse without so much as a glance at the line. He waved them off, knowing they’d be sorry for it later. John took note of new faces, returning rowers, and christ on a stick, is that Sherlock Holmes? He stared at him for a little more than a socially acceptable amount of time. John forced himself to look away and went to greet the boys. He waved Bill off of his seat and pushed the camera on him. 

“Pictures. Take.” 

The line moved quickly as soon as John reorganized the signup process and yelled at Kavanagh for texting seven different coeds underneath the table. Holmes soon came to the forefront. John smiled tightly at him. He didn’t smile back. John shrugged it off and straightened the clipboard, ordered Bill to take the damn photo, in this century please, thank you, bless you. 

He had heard of him of course, this Sherlock Holmes. Born in France but most of his schooling was in London. He made the decision to row under the French flag in Amsterdam and placed second in the competition. Holmes exclusively rowed singles and had never competed in a boat larger than a four. He was tall, smart, and not a team player. So why the hell was he signing up to row in one of the biggest competitive eights race in the world? 

“Aren’t you supposed to be asking me questions?” 

“Uh- yes. Name?”

“You obviously recognize me.” 

“Right.” John paused, “Do you make a habit out of being this rude?” Holmes made a face.

“He means are you this much of an arse all the time?” Kav explained. 

“Oh!” Holmes hesitated, “Yes.” 

“Look. I don’t know much about you but-” John began.

“You know I row both sides but prefer port. You know I placed second at World’s, but refused to believe the rumors about my loose rigger bolt. Which were true, to some extent. You can recall my height, how much I weigh, and my shoe size, probably off the top of your head. I’m surprised you didn’t scour the internet for low quality videos of me rowing at my old secondary school. Yes, they do exist. I’m quite impressed at the your research and I’m not sure if the socially acceptable reaction is to be repulsed or to be pleased.” 

“Alright. So rude _and_ full of himself.” John said, eliciting a sharp laugh from Bill. 

“Don’t write that down.” Holmes ordered and groaned when he saw the sheet, “Why are you writing that down?” 

“Lestrade likes us to take note of first impressions. So we can separate the dickheads from the decent and morally educated.” John conceded. 

“I don’t understand.”

“Which word? Decent or moral?” he cocked his head to the side. 

An amused noise. “Sherlock.” he said, offering his hand, “Sherlock Holmes. But you already knew that, didn’t you?” John laughed as they shook hands. He made note of Holmes’ grip and the calluses that marred his palms. “You must be John Watson.” 

“You’ve heard of me.” John’s expression brightened considerably. 

“You’re the first coxswain to achieve presidential status here at Cambridge, I’d have to be living under a rock to not hear about you.” Holmes said petulantly. John grinned, delighted that his presidency was being discussed somewhere other than the boathouse locker room. 

“Thanks.” he nodded, “I think.” 

“And where am I meant to go?” Holmes asked. 

“You’ll be off to tank with me.” John replied, “I’ve got to get these things off to Lestrade.” 

“And what’ll happen to us then?” Bill said. 

“Go change? We’ll meet you there.” John answered, turning to Holmes as they walked, “So the tank is over here and the door after that one is the-”

“Erg room, I know.” he nodded. John raised an eyebrow. “I managed to get my hands on some blueprints. Boathouse layout is very important to an effective team. Though I gather that you-” Holmes trailed off as he saw John yawn, “...could care less.” 

“Sorry.” John said, “Stayed up late trying to figure out why my organic chemistry homework wouldn’t balance. Speaking of, I must look a right mess.” He looked down at his clothes. 

As a coxswain, he had a tendency to layer up whenever he put in early mornings at Goldie. Navy sweatpants, a long sleeve older than his mum, a red bobble hat, and fucking adidas slides was a surefire way to bring all the boys to the yard. Christ, John what were you thinking? he scolded himself silently. 

::

They entered the tank with little to no fuss. It was a good thing too, because if that door decided to stick again John was going to have a breakdown in front of Holmes. Lestrade looked up and gave them a curt nod. John pointed out an empty seat to Holmes, told him he could set his things anywhere as long as they didn’t obscure the walkways, and tried not to bite his lip so hard when he stripped off into a unisuit. 

“So- good bunch, aren’t they?” Lestrade whispered. 

“If you’re looking to win the Boat Race.” John shrugged. 

Lestrade smiled good-naturedly. John always made a point to be extremely laid back around his coach. It made for an alarming shock out on the river. The shift from cute and easygoing to domineering and loud was easy for John. It was a good tactic when going into a competition and it always worked. 

“At least there aren’t more people on the coaching staff than on the ergos.” Lestrade shrugged. 

“True.” John said, “Where’s the D.I.?” 

“Said he’d be late. Something about empowering the little people in the world?”

“He’s at the preschool again.”

“They’re trying something new. Adelaide got kicked out of the old one.”

“Was it the punching? Damn, I really thought she wasn’t listening.” 

“I doubt any child of Dimmock’s would let any self defense training go to waste.”

Duncan Isaac Dimmock, or D.I. was the club’s coxing coach. He currently held the ninth seat on the UK’s own national team but worked for Cambridge on the side. Every now and then, he and his wife would screw up pick up times and he’d have to bring his daughter to the boathouse. And every now and then, Bill and Kav would teach her how to throw a right hook or how to properly knee someone in the balls. 

“Chin up there, Tom.” Lestrade projected to the boy sitting in starboard eight. Tom jutted his chin out, “No, no. Not like that.” Lestrade walked over. John gave the room a cursory glance, scanning for errors and taking note of technical mistakes. 

Bill and Kav walked in and took the last two seats on portside. John went over to them to explain the workout written on the whiteboard. 

“Both sides are to switch between rowing at a thirty at 90% and a rest period at an eighteen, half press. The thirty is in sync, stroke is man up front and that’s Matt Callaghan. The rest period is technique work. After fifteen, you’ll want to be heading to the weight room. Adler wants your measurements.”

“So it’s true?” Kav asked, “She’s really replacing McMahon?”

“McMahon was a good for nothing slacker who sat around waiting for his paychecks.” Bill remarked, “And Adler is hot as fuck.” 

Kav nodded in agreement, “You know how she likes to wear 

“Just start. I swear to god, you two are going to give me an ulcer before I’m out of uni.”

“Doubtful.” Holmes interjected.

“You should be rowing.” John replied curtly. He turned his eye on Holmes, assessing his drive until he was sure that the rower was shooting his tail from the catch, “Arse under. Tuck it in.” Sherlock was having none of it, refusing to sacrifice the stroke rate for a technique check. 

“You’ll find that’s it’s easier and more efficient if you sit on the upper half of the seat. So tuck it in, Holmes.” That got his attention. Holmes attempted a fix but the thirty prevented him from making any major changes. He huffed, frustrated.

John let out a long sigh and walked over. He put a hand on the small of Holmes’ back and guided him through the drive slowly, “I just saved you from having back problems before you turned thirty.” Holmes snorted. “What? Come on, tell me that doesn’t feel better.”

“Yes, yes alright that feels better.” Sherlock pursed his lips.

“Thank you, Mr. President.” John said under his breath.

“Thank you.” Sherlock said as John let his gaze wander around the room. 

John turned back to him and smiled, “You’re welcome.”

John was swept up in the moment for exactly seven seconds. You’d have to be blind not to realize that Holmes was one of the more attractive rowers in the sport. He’d been a household name ever since he won single sculls at Henley and second at World’s. He’d been on the cover of Rowing Magazine twice. Then there was the whole fiasco with ex-trainer, Victor Trevor. 

“You’re thinking.” Holmes cut into John’s internal monologue, “It’s putting me off. Go away.”

“Ta, Holmes.” 

“I don’t know what that means.” 

“Doesn’t matter. Keep rowing.” 

The boys finished their workout soon after. Lestrade gave out instructions for the next half of opening day. They were to head off to the weight room to have their official physicals done. Run of the mill stuff, height weight, BMI. Adler wanted to save dehydration tests for later, which elicited a sigh of relief from all the rowers. 

Lestrade reminded them that any funny business with the freshmen was not to be permitted. After weigh ins, there was to be an outdoor cooldown and then a final meeting with the coaching staff. Again, he reminded them not to bother with any mischief regarding the freshmen. Absolutely no repeats of last year. Lestrade glared at Kav and Bill when he said this.

The season had gotten off to an alarmingly good start. The boats were primed and ready. New recruits were pouring in. Lestrade had an undeniable skip in his step. Adler had replaced that idiot McMahon. Bill and Kav didn’t set the boathouse on fire. 

They hadn’t even gotten out on the water yet and John found himself thinking about holding up that trophy on race day. With Bill, Kav, Mike, and Sherlock bloody Holmes right next to him, grinning their bloody asses off. 

Then Lestrade started yelling at him for forgetting to check the stern pitch of the Vespoli. 

“Jesus, John! Are you out of your fucking mind? Well? Go on then!” 

“Right. Sorry! Ok. I’ll do that.” John hurried off, silently cursing the boys who began to snicker behind him. 

::

John usually woke up at four o’clock am, on the dot nothing less. He’d get up from his bed, stare at his desolate flat and sigh. After getting dressed, it was time to tiptoe through the hallways of the building, hoping to dear god he doesn’t come across anyone from downstairs. Sometimes (well, one time), he’d get up even earlier for something special. 

Say, a small fire. 

It’s not as if John didn’t know that his landlord wasn’t the most law abiding of citizens. When he thinks about it now, John doesn’t know why he was surprised. Yes, the flat was a good size and the rent was reasonable and the other tenants were nice enough. Save for one Mrs. Delancey who always liked to talk about how much John looked like her husband. Which he really doesn’t, he’s seen pictures. 

When John has to run down two flights of stairs to access a fire extinguisher at two o’clock in the morning, he struggles to be optimistic. His landlord started a screaming fight with him and John may have used some words that he would definitely not use around his mother.

“I should’ve listened to my wife! She always said taking on university students would be a liability that I wouldn’t want to deal with!” he made ungodly gestures towards everything in his flat as he said this, “And I can’t deal with this! Look at the floor! Look at the walls!” 

John straightened himself out and worked his jaw. After taking a deep breath, he began to talk, “Maybe if you actually checked the bleeding electrical outlets for once, this wouldn’t have happened. I’ve called you about the outlets before and what did you say? Don’t worry about it, John. You’re overreacting, John. Do you know that I’ve considered moving to Arbury?” 

“Well? Go on! Let’s see if you last three minutes there! Better them than me!” his landlord banged his fist on the wall and came away with reddened knuckles. His first instinct was to shake his hand out but stopped to salvage his pride.

“The floor didn’t look that good anyway, tell your wife she can’t decorate for shit.” John spat out. He left his landlord to assess the damage, “I’m going to get my laundry and you can start putting advertisements out. God knows you’ll need to.”

“Johnny! Will you please keep it down?” a voice from upstairs called.

“Not now, Mrs. Delancey!” John shouted. 

He couldn’t believe it. John had managed to get himself kicked out of his flat. He’d done worse, John thought. He dated Mary Morstan, for god’s sake. No, this was a walk in the park compared to that. One week and three days anniversaries were worse than this. Mary Morstan puking in his closet was worse than this. It’s not as if he wasn’t considering moving out and he knew that at least half of the other tenants would be ecstatic. 

It was great news for William Standish who couldn’t stand it whenever John blasted playlists before a big race. Will was a dropout who hated everything John stood for. When John went to go fetch his laundry, he found him smiling serenely as he threw out a rather large pack of ear plugs. John scoffed and threw a dish towel at him. It missed. By at least a foot. Will laughed. John fumed. 

::

He ends up calling at least seven different friends that morning, asking if they had a spot on the couch for him. He was on the bus, workout clothes in one bag and textbooks in a backpack slung across his shoulders. John was on his fourth call, trying his hardest to whisper the basic rules of decency to the very indecent Hugh Kavanagh. 

“Right. Let me get this straight, I can’t sleep on your couch because a girl has already taken residence?” John spoke into his phone, “No, Kav. I’m just wondering how you pull off a one-nighter on a Monday? And also why you woke up halfway through the night to go and sleep on your bed. Alone.” 

He was getting weird looks from the people around him. One particular character looked as if he’d be very interested in having a girl on his couch. “Right. Yeah, you sound like you’re having a lot of fun. No, I don’t want to know what she’s got down her throat. I’m hanging up now. Bye, I said good bye Kav.” 

The man who had been trying his best to discreetly eavesdrop opened his mouth to speak. John held up a finger before he could get a word in, “Don’t.” 

This day was shaping up to be the worst day he’d had in months. John didn’t even want to think about afternoon practice. He went over his options in his mind, directing his eyes to an advertisement. Anything not to make eye contact with any poor soul who had heard him talking to Kav.

John thought about his situation long and hard. Worst case scenario, his landlord called the cops and John got a criminal record. John doubted it would get to that. Best case scenario, his incessant guilt tripping would work for once in his life. It was time to figure out who was the most desperate bastard on the team, someone who couldn’t keep paying monthly rents. But who? 

Then Sherlock Holmes walked onto the bus. His gaze darted around the bus and didn’t settle until his eyes landed on John. He made his way to where John was seated and took residence in the seat next to him. Everything was just fine until he started talking. 

“Watson.”

“Holmes.”

“I didn’t take you for a commuter.”

“I didn’t take you for a nosy git.” John snapped, “Jesus. Sorry. I did- I’m having a bad day.”

“I hear you’re in the market for a flat.” Holmes said.

“I don’t want to know how you knew that.” John shook his head. He had seen Holmes do this before, at press conferences and interviews. You could say it was his trademark, one of his many calls to fame. Other than that fine arse of his.

“What about my place?”

“Sorry- what?” John asked.

¨I’m looking for a flatmate and you’re looking for a flat.” Holmes explained.

“Are you-”

“Yes. But only if-”

“No! No, it’s- fine. It’s all fine.”

“I know it’s fine.”

John stuck a hand out into the bus aisle. Holmes took it with no hesitation. Then they sat in silence. The bus was not as cramped as it usually was and that dodgy bloke who wanted in on Kav’s couch had gotten off at the latest stop. It was comfortable, familiar even.

John could feel Holmes’ gaze bore through him.

“What do you want?” John said.

“I own three ergometers and and like to keep them in the living room. The couple that lives next door seem to have just discovered sex and can’t keep quiet. My landlady fancies herself to be my surrogate mother. Also, there’s this pap named Anderson who hides in the bushes out front.” Holmes rattled off, “He says he works for British Rowing but if you ask me I think he was fired recently and is experimenting with drugs. Maybe heroin. Possibly cocaine.”

John laughed, “Why are you telling me this?” 

“Potential flatmates should know the worst about one another.” Holmes replied, fishing a phone out of the tight trousers he was wearing. 

“Don’t beat yourself up. Your flat sounds like bloody Buckingham Palace compared to mine. Except for the sex crazed couple next door and your maternal landlady.”

“Don’t forget the photographer who get high in the bushes.” 

John couldn’t help the giggle that escaped his mouth. “You’re extraordinary.” 

“That’s quite direct, don’t you think?” Holmes said, looking up from his phone screen, finger caught mid-scroll on some sort of word document.

“I guess. Is direct- bad?” John shrugged. After a lot of practice and possibly some mistakes, John had learned that it was easier to get to the point. There was always that someone at a party who translated a friendly smile as an invitation to get in his pants. 

“I rather think it’s easier to make sense of.” Holmes said.

“This is my stop.” John said, lifting up his workout bag.

“Yes.” Holmes said slowly, “I deduced that ten minutes ago.” 

“I’m going to get off. The bus. God, I’m not going to _get off_. Christ.” John stopped himself,

“Have a nice day?” Holmes said, a confused look on his face.

“I’ll see you at practice, yeah?” John asked, lingering in the aisle. 

“What else have we got live for?” Holmes drawled, coaxing a breathy laugh out of John. He waved his goodbye, expecting Holmes to reciprocate only to realize that Holmes was looking at his phone once again. 

The walk to the lecture wasn’t long. But the professor seemed dead set on going over the allotted time. How long could someone talk about muscle density? Really fucking long, John found. He tried his best to listen to the professor drone on and on about the makeup of the brachioradialis and wrote as much as he could hear (which was not a lot). 

Needless to say, his brain was much more concerned about his new living situation. He started making plans to move out, maximizing time spent with Holmes doing so while coordinating with their practice times. John wanted to get out of his building as soon as possible and he reasoned that his quality of life had tripled ever since Holmes asked him to be his flatmate. 

Sure, there was some couple, the landlady, and an ex-journalist lurking about. But Sherlock Holmes would be lurking about too. And John sure as hell wasn’t going to complain about that.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Rigger bolts attach onto the boat via gunwale and are tightened and loosened with wrenches. A loose one could mean the loss of a rigger altogether.
> 
> John is the President of the Boat Club and not many coxswains have done that in Boat Race history. But I really love John and thought it fit. The President is elected by the boat club and has a say in the workouts that the rowers do.
> 
> Dimmock is the coxswain coach, which is pretty self explanatory. Adler, though, is the Athlete Development Coach. There are eight coaches in all and I will be introducing them as the fic progresses.
> 
> The workout John explained was done on intervals. When he says "..at a 30", he means stroke rate or number of strokes per minute. Pressure refers to how hard the rowers are moving the oar through the water. 
> 
> Weigh-ins are routine and done regularly in most crews. The Light Blues are predominantly heavyweight. Coxswains who cox males are expected to be 120 pounds at a minimum. 
> 
> I think that's it for this one. Kudos/comments are a gift from god.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> in which the boys move into Montague Street, Holmes showers (naked), and John forgets how to breathe.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Whoa, seven years later and I'm back. Kidding. But seriously, thanks for the feedback and I'll try to be better. Unbeta'ed.

There’s a lot to be said about the Cambridge boys. 

Focused and determined, they could move boats through the water and come out with low splits and high rates. When given the right push, they could clear puddles at forty strokes per minute. They could pull sub two without breaking a sweat. All of them felt they deserved a spot in the Blue Boat, even if they knew well enough that half of them would be gone by November.

They had met at Goldie to take the half hour ride to Ely. The bus ride was uneventful, scattered whispers asked for help with calculus or a drink of water or for Bill and Kav to please turn the music down, christ, is that One Direction? My seven year old sister listens to that. Turn it off. Now. 

The current was decent, nothing that they couldn’t handle, and the wind was more soothing than unforgiving. John had been hard on them during water practice, yelling through the pieces and incessantly calling out strokecoach times. Once they docked in, the rest came naturally. Up and out, over heads, split to shoulders. They had put the boats away quickly and didn’t say a word during Lestrade’s after-practice recap. Adler announced that she would be holding the dehydration test the next week. No one complained.

A bystander might say that these boys would hit the showers, get dressed, and leave as quietly as they came. 

But then again, a bystander would be wrong. 

::

Boys were running around, chasing one another, yelling creative obscenities. Others flushed the toilets constantly, in hopes of blasting the boys showering with arctic cold water. Still others wrote and drew on the whiteboard that displayed the workouts and Bill was complimented profusely on his talent for drawing male genitalia.

John beat out two freshmen for one of the open showerheads. He focused on averting his eyes from anyone’s privates. He had made that mistake freshman year and he sure as hell wasn’t going to do that again. He lined up his products in a neat little row and hummed the chorus of a song as he rinsed the River Great Ouse from his hair. 

“Pass me the soap, Callaghan!” Kav yelled, “I know you’ve got it!” 

“So much for quiet.” John muttered, closing his eyes as he let the warm water wash over him. 

“I’m not finished, Hugh.” Callaghan answered.

“I need it! Come on, I’ve got a hot date tonight.” Kav pleaded. 

“With who? Your hand?” Callaghan rolled his eyes.

John shook his head. Idiots. He went over his homework for the night. Why did he ever think signing up for this many classes was a good idea? He tallied up the work that he could afford to put on the backburner. It left him with about three hours’ worth. Which left him with a new question, how much caffeine could he consume on the drive back to Goldie?

“Not a lot. Honestly. You’re going to piss more out than you take in.” Holmes murmured.

“What?” 

“I’m told that I do the deductions subconsciously. Have I upset you?” Holmes asked, biceps straining as he he reached over John for the soap. 

“No.” John squeaked out, “No, not at all.” 

“Don’t let me disturb your shower. I expect you’ll be needing a breather after that practice.” Holmes said. 

John swallowed and nodded. Holmes had been relatively friendly during practice, joking with his partner and laughing at the terrible jokes John cracked. He had smiled at John when he caught him looking at him while he loosened his oarlock. John had blushed and looked away. 

Holmes groaned softly, “This water is divine.”

John’s eyes widened, mind racing as he tried to commit the whole thing to memory. Then he started hacking and coughing. His windpipe began to close and he steadied himself on the cold water faucet. The faucet rained ice cold water down on him. He may have screamed. Jumping away from it, John slipped and fell to the tiled floor. Well, _fuck_.

“Watson! Watson! Are you alright?” Holmes extended a hand out to him. John held onto him for support.

“‘M fine.” John sighed, “Pass me a towel, Kav.” 

“You alright, Pres?” Kav came up to him, hair shaking as he rubbed a towel against his head. He held out a towel to John. John took it without hesitation and quickly wrapped it around his waist. 

“I’m fine!” John snapped, “I’m going to change.” John gathered up his things and stalked over to his workout bag. A string of obscenities played over and over in his mind. Sherlock fucking Holmes. With his gorgeous hair, and perfect skin, and back muscles. What a prick. 

“Oi!” 

“What do you want Bill?” John rummaged around his exercise bag for an outfit that wouldn’t get him laughed out of the club. Sweats, check. Long sleeve, check. Pants, pants, where were his pants. The red ones sat at the bottom of his bag. He sighed deeply and tugged them on. 

“So what’s the deal with you grabbing Holmes’ dick and then tripping on his shampoo?” Bill asked, his head trying to fight its way through the opening at the top of his shirt. If it had happened at any other time, John would be laughing his head off. 

But there were more serious matters to attend to. 

“That is not what happened!” John cried, “And it happened two minutes ago! How the hell did you-?”

“Kav’s a gossip.” Bill shrugged, pulling on his shirtsleeves. 

“Kav’s a dickhead.” John breathed, cursing the day he met Hugh Kavanagh, “God, I’m going to kill him.” His sweatpants slid on easily and John tightened the waistband. 

“You’ve really got it in for this guy.” Bill mused, “Is his couch the one you’ll be sleeping on tonight?” Bill was always up for some innuendo. He was a tamer version of Kav, willing to keep mum about your sexual endeavors while simultaneously being a first class dick about it. 

“Actually.” John began, “I’ve got a more permanent standing regarding his flat.” 

“You work fast, Three Continents.” Bill laughed, “Known him for a day and you’re already shagging?” 

“No!” John said indignantly, throwing the sock that he had been putting on at Bill, who dodged it expertly. 

“Well, if you’re sure.” Bill turned back to his bag and took out a condom, winking at him as he put it into John’s back pocket. John bristled.

“My ulterior motive in this situation is not, in fact, to shag Holmes but to get a bloody roof over my head!” John yelled at him, “Don’t walk away from me! I’ll murder you! I swear to god- Bill!” 

“I’m shaking!” Bill yelled back, his smirk evident in his tone of voice. 

“Burn in hell!” 

“Use protection!” 

John huffed. He was seriously reconsidering his life choices. Now the whole team was convinced that he assaulted Holmes. John Watson, creepy president who’ll try to get you off in a communal shower. 

“It has a nice ring to it.” Holmes laughed. 

“Jesus- Holmes don’t sneak up on me like that.” John said as he closed his locker. He turned and was met with a shirtless Sherlock Holmes. He was dripping wet and equipped with only a towel to cover his lower half. John licked his lips. 

“I’ve been here for a long time, Watson.” Holmes said, shrugging on a white cotton longsleeve. 

John’s eyes widened, “Did you- Did you hear the part about the condom? I swear Bill was just being the idiot that he is. He does that, I’m not looking to get you off, unless- no, I’m just really grateful for the flat.” 

Holmes’ brow furrowed. 

“So you did hear about the condoms.” John deadpanned.

“I can safely say I did not hear anything to do with condoms.” Holmes answered.

“Right.” John nodded, “Good.” He exhaled, had he been holding his breath the whole time?

Holmes was fully dressed by the time John got his act together. Gray joggers complimented the black hoodie he had put on over his long sleeve. Holmes took out a pair of slides from his locker and John laughed.

“We’re matching.” John said, pointing to his own. 

“Yes, I believe we are.” Holmes smirked. 

John groaned inwardly, matching? God, was he two years old? He turned quickly and began to walk away. John had to admit that running away from his problems was one of his many talents. He began to pick up his pace. Holmes caught on quickly and came up beside John. Damn. 

“So.” John cleared his throat, “You taking the bus?” 

“Yes.” Holmes affirmed, his muscles straining in the tight long sleeve. John’s brain function lagged as he noticed a very real, very visible pair of nipples peak through the fabric.

“Great.” John said, swallowing hard, “Just- great.”

He was done for.

::

John endured the bus ride by expertly putting his workout bag on his lap. Holmes was coerced into sitting next to him by Bill, who had shot John an obvious wink. Holmes raised an eyebrow but didn’t attempt to engage John in any conversation for the rest of the ride. 

At the end of the ride, he gave John his number. John was elated, until he figured out that as flatmates, they would need to agree on a move in date. He took the piece of paper with a tight smile and ignored the rude hand gestures being made by Bill and Kav in the background. 

He fumbled with his keys for a little while and got into his flat with a long suffering sigh on his lips. He set down his bag and made his way towards the kitchen. John was a man on a mission. Right now, his prime directive was to find some food for his grumbling stomach.

“John Watson!”.

Mike Stamford is a starboard. He’s tall and relentlessly slim, which he swears is going to change once his father’s genes kick in. Mike had rowed in the Blue boat last year and vowed to come back stronger and better than before. John had been on the receiving end of endless prattling about America and the rowers there and the program directors. John knew Mike was good and he was quite talented at moving the boat.

He also excelled at breaking into John’s flat. 

“Told you I’d be back.” Mike smiled, his glasses pushing up on the bridge of his nose as he spoke. 

“Yeah?” John smiled, “Mind passing me an apple while you’re at it?” 

“I’ve got to introduce you to somebody.” Mike tossed the apple into the air. John caught it deftly and took a bite, “Come on, then.”

“What?” John said through a mouthful of apple, “Right now?” 

“Yes, right now.” Mike pushed him towards the door.

::

“Jim.” the stranger drawled, “Jim Moriarty.” 

“Mike.” John whispered, “I thought you said they were American.”

Mike laughed and introduced him to Sebastian Moran. John knit his eyebrows, why was he here again? 

“They’re our ticket, John.” Mike assured him and then went on to detail every bit of their rowing history, from Jim’s first time in the coxswain’s seat to Seb’s personal 2k record. They would laugh at weird intervals and John came to the conclusion that the inside jokes were definitely not lacking in their friendship.

“Yeah?” John said, still not convinced. Moriarty was ranked low internationally, with only a handful of titles under his name. John had to factor in his win at World Champs, which was surprising to say the least. Moran was new to the sport but had garnered much excitement when his times were released by his trainer. Mike seemed excited. So John figured he should be excited too.

“You needn’t worry, John.” Moriarty assured him, placing an unfamiliar hand on his shoulder, “We’ll do Cambridge proud.” 

“Your rooms will be right around this hallway.” Mike said, “I called in a few favors, so they should be habitable.” Moriarty smiled and picked up his bags as he entered the room. Moran gave John a curt nod but said nothing. John shrugged, can’t win them all. 

“John, you must know how very excited I am to be working with you. Club President, however did you manage it?” Moriarty said. John smiled tightly, resisting the temptation to repeat Moriarty’s question in an equally mocking tone. 

He took the room in. It was furnished quite nicely, with rowing memorabilia littering the walls. Oars lined the top half of the walls, creating a mismatched border along the ceiling. Pictures of past crews smiled at them from the fireplace mantle. 

“Who did you end up sleeping with, Mike?” John muttered. 

“Your mother.” Mike said.

“Shut up.” John rolled his eyes, “Dickhead.”

::

“That’s one, Cambridge. Big push through here. Good. Coming up on three. Here we go, focus ten for power through the drive. Length, catch here 2 seat, again 2 seat. Yeah, that’s it. Back down in 2, ready 1 and 2.” John listened intently to his recording through his earbuds. He needed to focus more on rhythm, this was abysmal. Better luck next time. 

Sherlock bloody Holmes had knocked on his door at bloody five in the morning, told him that he’d taken matters into his own hands, and furiously began to pack up his stuff. Apparently, Holmes didn’t wait for anybody, especially John. With a hurried explanation and a less than excited demeanor, Holmes had managed to get John dressed and ready for a moving day. 

Prick. 

“Stop listening to your blasted recording and help me with this box.” Holmes said, or maybe yelled. All John could see was Holmes’ rapid mouth movements. John took out one of his ear buds and made a motion for him to repeat, “Take this.” he pushed a large cardboard box into John’s arms. 

John had been waiting on the stoop of Holmes’ Montague Street flat for what seemed like hours. Holmes later informed him that it was only thirty minutes. He had groaned when he saw the moving van parked outside his building but shut up when he realized that Holmes wasn’t going to call the movers off 

“My grandmother could carry that box up faster.” Holmes said, “God rest her soul.”

John laughed, “You sod.”

“Flatmate.” Holmes corrected over his shoulder. 

“Don’t get too ahead of yourself.” John griped. Which was really super funny because Holmes could probably murder his closest friends and still convince John to live with him. God, he could ask John to marry him and he’d say yes on the spot. Maybe. Probably not. Actually, definitely. Yes. 

A few hours later, John found himself splayed out on Holmes’ couch, trying desperately to catch his breath. Holmes had insisted on keeping the boxes unopened but John shook his head and had dutifully put every single thing in its rightful place while Holmes went on about how he was wasting his time. John groaned, running his hand over his aching back. 

“I told you-”

“Shut up.” John held a finger to Holmes’ lips, “Just- shut up.”

“Anything for my coxswain.” Holmes smirked. 

John gulped. Anything meant a lot of things. Oh god, that face. Maybe if he just- better not. He stood up abruptly, letting Holmes’ legs fall to the floor. As expected, Holmes was not flustered or even vaguely put off. John looked at Holmes, who still looked like he just stepped off the front page of GQ. Not that he read GQ. Or had a subscription.

“Tea?” 

“There’s some Fortnum and Mason in the top cupboard.” Holmes mumbled. 

“I’m a PG Tips man myself, but I’ll manage.” John eyed the cupboard. He wasn’t going to get to that tea easily. Picking up a nearby stool, he scooted it closer to the cupboard. God, the tea would have to move to a lower cupboard. 

“PG Tips is for plebes.” Holmes made his way over to John, easily swinging the cupboard door open and handing the package to John. 

“Who died and made you Caesar?” 

“I will not have a PG Tips fanatic under my roof. I insist you convert immediately.”

“That’s not what Rome is about, Caesar.”

“What is that supposed to mean?”

“Nevermind. So, tell me, Eton or Harrow?” John set out two cups. 

“Neither, actually.” Holmes said, “I had a tutor. Had to focus on crew.” 

“But- weren’t you at Eton for a year?” Holmes raised an eyebrow. John coughed, “I read it- somewhere.”

"It worries me that you know that.”

“Oh for god’s sake, just drink your tea Caesar.”

::

After three days of living together, John and Holmes settled into a familiar routine. Wake up, crew, school, more crew, take out, and if they had time, crew. It wasn’t anything they weren’t used to but having someone else to complain with made it ten times more enjoyable. Apparently, misery did love company.

“Moriarty makes me want to jump out of the boat.” John growled. 

“Likewise.” Holmes said, a slight grimace on his face.

“You know- I think he deliberately cut me off coming round that bend.” John said.

“He did.” Holmes nodded.

“Are you sure?” 

“When have I ever not been sure?”

“When you told me that it was highly unlikely that the producers would kill off such a number of characters in two seasons and that I should go ahead and finish Downton Abbey.” John huffed. 

“It was highly unlikely.” Holmes rolled his eyes. 

“I trusted you!”

“You trusted Julian Fellowes!”

The locker room had gotten used to John and Holmes going off about one thing or another after practice. John had introduced Sherlock to his group of friends from last year. Bill, Kav, Callaghan, Hunt, and Stamford. The boys liked Holmes’ well enough and mostly put up with him because he had a knack for directing them to girls who’d give them the time of day. 

“You know, you’re in the running for CUBC’s cutest couple. Save for Hunt and his mirror.” Callaghan remarked from the locker across from them. Hunt cursed at Callaghan and threw a pair of pants at him.

“We’re not together, right Holmes?” John said. 

Fuck, he wished they were. 

“Definitely not.” Holmes shook his head. What the hell was that supposed to mean? John resisted the urge to bang his head against the locker. 

Mixed messages, his arse. Holmes was sending encrypted code in ten different languages. In the mornings, he’d have John’s coat and shoes ready. There was that one time he dropped off tea at John’s desk in the library. Apparently he was “dropping by to say hello”, what kind of sane person does that? 

John could never forget (it literally played over and over in his head) the Great Personal Space Invasion of 2017 when Holmes brushed his lips against John’s ear when reaching for the tea (which by the way still hadn’t been moved from the top cupboard). Bletchley Park didn’t have a fucking chance against this sort of shit. 

“But you’re shagging, yes?” Bill said, earning laughs all around. 

“You’re insufferable.” Holmes said, “Come along, John.”

John gathered his things and went off to follow Holmes, trying his very best not to trail him like a lost puppy. He had a feeling that the enthusiastic whip sounds the boys were playing behind him meant he wasn’t doing very well. John decided to pick apart their conversations for the day, justifying that the whispered “Bless you” during John’s sneezing fit in the boat meant that Holmes was madly in love with him. 

The bus back to campus was always charged with testosterone and that day wasn’t any different. Bill and Kav had taken it upon themselves to blast the Hits of the 90’s radio, as if they didn’t get enough of that from Lestrade’s idea of a workout playlist. 

“Turn this garbage off.” Stamford groaned. 

“Turn it up, you say?” Kav said, motioning to Bill, who gleefully turned the dial. 

“Why do I even bother?” Stamford asked. 

“Dunno, mate. That’s more of a you problem.” Bill said. Stamford shook his head, laughing. It was nice to have Stamford back, whose form did get a bit better, thanks to Moriarty and Moran. John still thought that he had a lot to work on, but then again John thought everybody had a lot to work on.

Holmes seemed too preoccupied for small talk. As usual, he had brought on a textbook and was reading through it quickly. John looked out of the window, casually breathing in Holmes’ scent, which by the way was a delightful bouquet of black tea and mint and aftershave. He’d have to find out what aftershave Holmes used. John stopped his train of thought before it could go any further. 

“So, President Watson.” Holmes began, “I was thinking Chinese.” 

“What about it?” 

“For dinner, tonight.”

“Oh! Right. Chinese is fine.”

“But you don’t want Chinese.” Holmes cocked his head to the side, examining John closely, “Do you?” 

“Then what do I want?” John held his breath as Holmes scrutinized him. 

“What you really, really want.” Bill and Kav chimed in. John broke eye contact to glare at them. 

“You’re in the mood for Italian.” Holmes stated, a self satisfied expression on his face. The bus came to an abrupt stop that caused all the boys to surge forward in their seats. 

“Get out! I’ve got a date tonight!” Bill ushered the boys out. 

“What’s her name?” Callaghan leaned forward.

“I don’t kiss and tell.” Bill said.

“Holmes.” Callaghan jutted his chin out, as if to give the ok.

“Girl in your intro chem class. Generic name, probably Elizabeth or Abigail. Only said yes to this date because she’s hoping you take her somewhere expensive. Parents cut her off. Stress eats her roommate’s food instead of buying her own. Roommate’s out of town. She’s interested in her Psych professor. Been trying to have intercourse with him for months. If she wears slingbacks tonight, she already has and is going to drop you. If she wears t-straps, she’s decided to settle for you instead.” Holmes stopped, looking expectantly at Bill. Some of the freshmen still hadn’t gotten over Holmes’ deductions, the poor souls 

“Fantastic.” John breathed. 

“Fuck.” Bill said, “What’s a t-strap?” 

“T-straps have a distinctive strap that runs vertically up the middle of the foot, said strap connects to another part of the shoe closer to the ankle. They can be found on both heels and sandals. It’s also not uncommon for several t-straps to be on one shoe.” Hunt answered.

“Forget Holmes. What the hell was that about?” Callaghan asked. 

“I worked at Clarks for a year and a half. Women’s section, obviously.”

“May I have everyone’s attention, please?” John projected, “Please arrive here at 6:30 am for core, as always. Weights session tomorrow will end fifteen minutes short for dehydration tests. Adler will yell at you if your piss doesn’t make the cut. Your piss better make the cut. Are we clear?” 

“Well, our piss better be.” Stamford said. 

“Actually, a tinge of yellow should be present.” Holmes piped up. 

“Whatever. Drink water, have a good night everybody, stay safe.” John said. 

“It’s a Thursday, John. No one parties on a _Thursday_.” Kav said.

“Shut up.” John said.

::

John woke up to the sound of Holmes erging away on his Concept 2. He wasn’t kidding when he said that he owned three of them. Holmes was always using them, day in, day out. John was sure that he kept an hourly schedule. All three ergs were kept spotless and extra batteries lined the bookcase. 

They took up one hundred percent on the space in the living room and haunted him with their constant presence. Every morning, Holmes would emerge in all his sweat soaked glory and John would have a heart attack. It was embarrassing, really. 

But not today. 

“Good morning- oh.” 

Maybe he spoke too soon.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> all the rowing stuff in the beginning - basically irrelevant, if you're curious, go ahead and ask but it's not going to prevent you from understanding where the story is going. 
> 
> practice times - I go by the actual CUBC practice schedule. The boys have Mondays off, Tuesdays and Fridays, and weekends. They have practice twice every weekday, in the morning and in the afternoon. Mornings are spent at Goldie for core and erg sessions. In the evening, the boys are driven to Ely on the River Great Ouse for water practices. On weekends, they arrive at Goldie and then drive to Ely.
> 
> recording- John's listening to a recording during the move, which is basically a recording (duh) of his calls during practice. 
> 
> time period - I should have addressed in the beginning but I've set this in 2017. Mostly because that's when the new Ely Boathouse is projected to be finished.
> 
> Concept 2 - the premier erg brand
> 
> boathouses - There's Goldie, which sits on the River Cam, and Ely, which is on the River Great Ouse. As I said before, I'm going off of the blueprints for Project Ely which is set to be finished two years from now. 
> 
> I live for kudos/comments!!!


	4. update

Hi everyone! It's been so long since I updated this fic but I think I'm going to take it down and re upload as a 10k one shot. It will be officially taken down on May 1st and the new one re uploaded sometime in June.


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